


Sorry

by Chopin



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: violence - Warning
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chopin/pseuds/Chopin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are out somewhere when a loud noise makes John think a shot has been fired. So, he pushes Sherlock to the ground to protect him, but really it was only a car backfire or something similar. Bonus if Sherlock gets scraped up and John feels bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=24299070#t24299070) here. I have re-written this Fill because the first was awful. But yes, I am the A!A from that thread.

Author: [](http://adellin-cabbie.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://adellin-cabbie.livejournal.com/)**adellin_cabbie**  
Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Title: Sorry  
haracters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade, Anderson, Sally Donovan  
Pairings: NA  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: Violence  
Notes: Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=24299070#t24299070) here. I have re-written this Fill because the first was awful. But yes, I am the A!A from that thread.

_"Sherlock and John are out somewhere when a loud noise makes John think a shot has been fired. So, he pushes Sherlock to the ground to protect him, but really it was only a car backfire or something similar.  
Bonus if Sherlock gets scraped up and John feels bad."_

 

 

"Even you couldn't be this stupid, Lestrade." Sherlock snapped, irratated that the best case Lestrade had given him so far had been ruined with the tediocity of a marital affair. It was obvious she'd been murdered by her lover, but apparently even the most obvious was beyond those who had the gaul to call themselves detectives.

Sherlock groaned in despair.

John's lips thinned as he placed a tentative hand on his friend's shoulders, and patting it, "Come on, Sherlock." John gestured to the entirety of the crime scene, "Solve it quickly so we can go home, yeah? I'll make us a cuppa." 

Sherlock forcefully jerked his shoulder from John's grip, an obvious dismissal to any who perceived the exchange, including John.

John only nodded before edging backwards,"Sure." He glanced behind himself, moving back towards the street, "I'll just be over the-" John didn't get to complete his his sentence or his retreat. The very moment John had jerked his thumb over his shoulder, a car had backfired, sending a sharp crack through the air.

Immediately, John had hunched his shoulders and barrelled into Sherlock, trying to cover him from the enemies' fire. When there was one gunshot, John knew there were at least five more, and that's if you were lucky.

Shouting was heard over the howl of the dessert winds, but John could barely make out more than field orders issued from the Colonel from the unit behind John's squad.

John lifted himself off enough to get a good look at McKay beneath him. Trev had been shot in the gut, and John couldn't help the invoulentary wince.

"John-" The downed soldier had tried, but John quickly shushed him.

"It'll be okay, Trev." John hurried to console as he ripped off his jacket and pressed it tightly to the wound. He didn't know what happened to his field dressings, but John could make do. Murray had some too. "Murray, I need your kit!" John yelled ovr his shoulder, "You'll be fine, Trev, just calm down." When McKat started acting up again, squirming and talking nonsense.

Another shot fired, and John couldn't help the instinctual collapse over his friend, covering him with his body. The sharp pain of a bullet ripping through his shoulder was unmistakable, and the following scream of pain made Trevor still beneath him.

"John. John are you alright?"  

John just jerked his head as he hand dug into his shoulder, trying to staunch the bleeding there too. And where the hell was Murray? He was talking too damned long to get his ass where it was needed!

"John, you're fine."

"I've been shot!" John hollard back with a bit in his voice as he went back to putting pressure back on Trevor's gut shot. It was fatal, maybe, but if they had air support it just might to fixable.

"You've not been shot, John. You're in London. You're fine." Trevor tried again, attempting to get John to look him in the eye.

John hissed a shut up, before drawing his SIG and aiming it in the general direction of the enemy party. He fired off a shot or two at the shadows glinting from behind a dune before looking down at Trev.

He wasn't Trevor at all though.

John starled and almost dropped his gun at seeing the stranger's face. It wasn't Trevor, same dark hair, but the eyes were grey instead of a hazel brown. He had cheek bones too; Trev most definately did not have cheek bones.

"You're not Trevor." John sat up and pushed himself off the man as he aimed his SIG right at the man's head.

"Very astute, John."

John blinked at him, "Then how do you-" Stupid question though. Sherlock knew everything.  

Wait. Sherlock?

Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John finally looked around him, seeing the sandy dunes replaced with the cold tall buildings of the London skyline. His mates surrounding him were suddenly Yarders, and Sherlock was no longer John's once, now dead, best mate from Afghanistan.

"Bloody hell." John mumbled as he wiped his face.

"John, you okay?" Lestrade asked, bending down to eye level, "You kinda freaked out there."

John looked down at his SIG and saw a flashlight. He couldn't help the invouentary groan, "Sorry." He sighed tiredly.

"Don't worry. It was worth seeing you knock the 'freak' down like a tackle dummy." Anderson chuckled, "He hit the floor pretty hard too."

John's gaze shot up and saw Sherlock was still on the ground. He seemed fine; but his hands were all scraped up, and he was sitting in a puddle of the murder victim's blood.

"Sherlock-" John immediatly got to his friend's side and helped him up, "Are you okay? I didn't mean- I'm sorry. I didn't know what I- It was an acci-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped harshly; and John was quick to obey, mouth snapping shut with a clack, before dropping his head to his chest like a chastized puppy. "I'm fine, John." Sherlock tried again after a pause and a little nudging from Lestrade. "It's fine."

Sherlock grimmaced after he gave John a visual once over, "Are you alright?"

John grimmaced, "I... not really. No." His head ducked again as he made to slowly inch away and escape.

Sherlock listened to John's ever increasing silent apologies and murmurings about it being an accident. He didn't know. It wouldn't happen again. _I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't-_ Sherlock growled, and with a quick movement to end all John's mindless insecure blatherings, he swept forward and pulled John into his chest; embracing him.

It was uncomfortable for Sherlock, and awkward, but it seemed to be exactly what John needed. The man had stiffened at first, but then John had relaxed in Sherlock's arms and wrapped his own around Sherlock's waist and shoulders.

The other Yarders couldn't help gawking, even if only a little bit; but Lestrade sent them all a glare that had them all packing and looking in other less interesting directions.

Then, after an incredibly weird fourty-seven seconds, Sherlock pushed John away and stuffed his hands deep within his pockets. John just nodded silently, tips of his ears reddening a bit, as he ran his hand down his mouth in embarassment.

"Thank you." He murmured quietly, so quietly that even Lestrade, only a meter away, couldn't hear it.

Sherlock nodded back, "Of course." He swallowed before sending John a sharp look, "But that will never happen again."

"Yes. Probably for the best."

 

 

 


End file.
